


Half a Soul

by orphan_account



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Character Death, Grief/Mourning, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Stucky - Freeform, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, frick, stevebucky - Freeform, this is sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-12
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2018-02-16 22:47:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2287238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky makes him a cup of coffee every morning, sets it across from him at the very table where they always ate breakfast together. They used to talk about everything, but nothing at all. And even when the man across from him was drinking his coffee, Bucky could still see the smile in his eyes. Except now there are no beautiful blue eyes to watch him wordlessly as he sips his own drink, to shine brighter than the sun. He watches the trails of steam billow up from the dark brew, dissipating into nothingness. He leaves the mug there all day, and dumps out the cold coffee every night. It's a habit he can't break, doing it day in and day out. Steve was always a zombie without his coffee.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Half a Soul

**Author's Note:**

> For Cassidy. Thank you for brainstorming with me in the past, and for never giving up on me.

7:15 AM. His alarm clock trilled shrilly from the bedside table, blaring and cutting through the still silence of the room like a hot knife sliding easily through butter. Stirring a bit in his cocoon of blankets that he was snugly swaddled in, Bucky let out a light groan, raising his hand to rub at his groggy, bleary eyes. Voice a bit hoarse, he began to ask gruffly, "Steve, can you turn that off?" He managed to get through the first bit of his childhood love's name before his words lodged in his throat, morphing into a painful lump of tears that made it hard to breathe. His entire pharynx seemed to constrict, tightening to the point where he had to simply lay there, motionless, not breathing. Opening his eyes fully, the man gritted his teeth, clenching his jaw and letting out a quick huff. Swallowing hard past the tightness of his throat, the acidic bite of bile that permeated the back of his tongue and tainted his tastebuds, the man reached across the empty half of the cold bed to slam down on the snooze button. His fingers remained on the white electronic structure for a few heartbeats, eyes fixed blankly on the pillow opposite his own. The sheets beside him were undisturbed, unslept in, as they had been for the past few months. Bucky couldn't find it within himself to sleep in them, to even tug on them and send them into an organized state of disheveledness. It was Steve's side of the bed. If he wasn't able to sleep there anymore, nobody could. Nobody could take his place in the bed that felt as open and barren as the uncharted territory of a desert. It was no man's land. Rolling out of bed, Bucky ran a hand through his tangle of unkept chocolate-colored hair, fingers catching on a few bird's nest like-knots before he gave up completely. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror, and a low, almost inaudible sigh escaped his shell pink, chapped lips. He was a haggard mess; stubbly, sleep-rumpled, he rocked waves of hair that hadn't had contact with a brush in a month and the beard of a man who couldn't be bothered to shave anymore. He didn't have any reason to. He didn't have anyone to complain about his scruff being too scratchy against his delicate skin when they kissed.

 

Glancing down at his shirt momentarily, he tugged it up and over his head, tossing it aside without a care in the world. Striding stiffly over to his closet– their closet, he corrected himself mentally, their closet, it still had more of Steve's clothes than seemed humanly possible– he slid open the creaky door and retracted a cream colored sweater from the dark, musty depths of it. He pulled it onto himself easily, covering his tanned torso with soft, cottony fabric that still faintly smelt like his Captain. The scent of him clung desperately to the material, like it knew that it was one of the only lingering physical memories of the broad shouldered, fair haired angel who'd graced the earth for a time that was far too short, shorter than what he was meant to have. It was musky and earthy and vaguely sweet and just so.. Steve.

 

Wrapping his arms tightly around himself to ward away the chill of the morning air, Bucky shuffled out of the bedroom. He padded barefoot down the hallway, unable to take his eyes off of the mahogany wooded floors and glance at the pictures that hung on the walls in carefully chosen frames. They were mocking him, ghosts of the past, all smiles and laughter and reminders of the good times that he wished more than anything that he could relive. Rushing a bit as he neared the bend in the hall, he practically ran through the doorframe and into the kitchen. He had to get away from the broken memories that his mind could barely comprehend in his current state: a childhood in Brooklyn, protecting a young, sickly boy because he was a diamond in the rough. He remembered the scrawny little kid whose asthma made him slower, wheezing for air to fill his afflicted lungs. He remembered the boy who truly couldn't for the life of him or defend himself in a fight; he had a lot of pep in his step, but god, he couldn't throw a fucking punch to save his life. His high spirits and bravery, courage, they made up for what he lacked physically. Sure, they couldn't help against busted lips, black eyes, ripped coats. But they could help him get back up and fight again.

 

He remembered a man who acted like summer and walked like rain. With hair like the golden rays of the sun and eyes like the clearest of spring skies, he radiated an aura of pure beauty like nobody else. He moved fluid as water, commanding himself with the grace of the tide. The man who pranced around the kitchen with platefuls of food, humming and giving Bucky a small but genuine smile every morning as a greeting. His presence was enough to fill the whole room, lingering even as he took their breakfast to the table and sat himself down. It was always Bucky's task to grab coffee. And even now, he still grabbed two mugs out of the cabinet to fill with the dark brew that their ancient percolator managed to make. Clutching onto their handles for dear life, his knuckles white, hands trembling, Bucky made his way to the small table. He set one mug at the head of it and took his own to the side across, pulling out his chair and taking an almost awkward seat. Cupping his mug between his palms, he stared at the dark, swirling depths of the caffeinated liquid. He stayed like that for a few minutes, silently watching the billowing tendrils of steam snake and slither through the air, dissipating into nothingness. Raising the cup with a shaky hand, he brought it up to his lips and took a deep drink. It was still hot enough to scald his tongue, but honestly, he loved the burn. It made him feel something again, something besides the hollow void that Steve's death had left in his heart, his soul, his entire being.

 

When he set it back down, swallowing the remnants of his long swigs, Bucky cleared his throat. In a scratchy, hoarse voice that was a joke compared to his usual one, he began to speak aloud. "G-G'morning, Steve," he started tremulously, bowing his head as a new flood of hot, bitter tears threatened to escape his eyes. They veered towards the corners of them and teetered dangerously on his waterline, nearly spilling over and tracing crystalline paths down his cheeks, sticky trails left in their wake. Lower lip beginning to quiver, he tugged it between his teeth, choking out, "Did you sleep well? I.. I haven't been sleeping too good lately. The bed's really empty and really cold, and– I never realized how soothing your heartbeat was until I couldn't lay my head on your chest and get lulled to sleep by it. I never noticed how much heat you radiated until you weren't by my side. I never knew how dependent I had grown on you until you weren't here anymore.." Finally, with one hard blink, Bucky sent the tears racing down his face, hearing the staccato sound of them pitter-pattering against the tabletop after dripping off of his chin. Shaking his head quickly, furiously, he sobbed freely. "And part of me wants to die, get buried alongside you. But if I die, who would be here to remember you? I still remember my little Stevie, the kid who I'd have to clean up after fights. I'd wipe the blood away from your nose, help you ice your bruises on your face. I knew a little Stevie who couldn't say no to a fight, even if he knew he was going to lose."

 

He actually managed to chuckle lightly, the sound ending on a bit of a strangled note as more tears streamed down his reddened cheeks. "Nobody in this world knows you like I do. Nobody knows what we did.. Like when we went to Coney Island and I made you ride the Cyclone, and you threw up. Nobody knows how vulnerable you were under that bravado you put up. Nobody knew you. And if I'm the only one who has the memories of the real you, I can't die. Not yet." Shoving away from the table, Bucky raised both his hands to his head, pressing the flats of them to his temples and running his fingers through his hair. Scratching at his head, he mumbled to either his nearly drained mug or the table, "I have to live enough for both of us. I.. can't make the memories that I wanted to. But I'll do my damn hardest to make you proud. That's what you'd want.. Right?" Of course, he didn't get any reply but the deafening roar of absolute silence, the very one that assaulted his ears every moment of every day he spent in the house that was too big for just him. Straightening up in his seat, he nodded slowly before rising to his feet. Taking his mug, he crossed back into the kitchen, carefully setting it down in the sink before going about with the rest of his day. All he was was robotic movements and absentminded actions, blank expressions and little to no words. He was a man of routine, a machine going about his one designated program.

 

He left Steve's cup of coffee there all day. The trails of steam quickly stopped, the drink going from hot to warm, lukewarm to cold. And at the end of the day, when he was barely dragging himself along, Bucky grabbed it and dumped it out. He watched the dark black-brown liquid swirl down the drain with a low sigh before setting that mug beside his own from the morning and plodding back to their bed. Flopping down on his side of the mattress, he surrounded himself in the mussed up blankets and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

**Author's Note:**

> This was roughly based on a prompt that I found on imagineyourotp.tumblr.com. That blog is a godsent.


End file.
